The parchnt was densely packed with decades of ticulous entries.
A grain caravan from the Reach: fifty silver stags. A rchant train selling Dornish wine: one hundred silver stags. A minor noble passing through: forcibly tolled ten Golden Dragons...
Drop by drop, the stream ford an ocean.
When Solomon's eyes fell upon the final, astronomical sum representing the total collected tolls, even his famously steady heart skipped a beat. He inhaled sharply.
This is far more profitable than squeezing rations out of peasant farrs. Outside, the cheers of his victorious soldiers still echoed through the night, but Solomon no longer heard them.
He rested his hand on the heavy leather cover of the ledger. Perhaps I can use this. If I can exert control over the Kingsroad... the Reekfort sits right at the intersection where the road ets the Trident River.
He slowly rolled the parchnt back up and set it on the oak table. The flickering candlelight in the Great Hall cast his long shadow against the stone walls as a grand vision took shape in his mind.
Solomon stood and walked over to House Lege's massive, carved map table. His eyes traced the thick line of the Kingsroad down to the jagged mark representing the Reekfort.
His finger ca to rest lightly on the mark.
The miserable, rotting little tower had suddenly transford in his eyes. It wasn't just a border outpost; it was a valve on an inexhaustible river of silver and gold.
It could be the Jewel of the Trident!
Whoever controlled that crossing held the economic throat of the Riverlands in their grip.
But it was too early to think of such things. Solomon looked up toward the heavy doors of the hall. First, I need to figure out how to crack open this turtle shell.
The night hung over Willowbrook like a heavy black shroud. Torches flickered wildly at the base of the towering walls of the inner keep.
Solomon stood at a safe distance from the battlents. Behind him stood Lushen, Hector, and Bolin, their looted steel armor catching the orange glare of the flas.
He stepped forward, raising his head to shout toward the pitch-black walls above. His voice carried clearly on the night wind. "Lord Roger Lege!"
There was no answer from the wall. Only the whistling of the wind.
"Your city has fallen. Your soldiers have surrendered. Your wife and your brother are in my hands."
Solomon's voice was perfectly level, devoid of any mocking inflection.
"My objectives for this war have been achieved. I have no desire to see the streets of Willowbrook run red with blood."
He paused, letting the words settle over the citadel. He shot a subtle glance at Bolin, who had an arrow nocked and drawn in the shadows, signaling him to be ready.
"Co out and speak with ! Let us resolve this in a manner befitting our stations!"
A dead silence followed.
Then, a shrill, distorted shriek erupted from behind the rlons, sounding like a cat whose tail had just been severed. The voice was saturated with an uncontrollable, hysterical rage. "Speak with you?!"
"You are a jumped-up bastard who climbed from the mud using treachery and deceit! Your house gained its title by wiping arses, with no honor to speak of! What right do you have to speak with ?! The Lord of Willowbrook?!"
The curses spiraled into absolute madness.
"You cowardly thief! You took my city with lies and tricks! Do you honestly believe I would ever bow to the likes of you?!"
"Crawl back to your cave! When my son Jero returns with the host of my vassals, we will flay you and your mud-footed peasants alive! I will use your skull as a chamber pot!"
Solomon listened in silence, his expression entirely unchanged. Behind him, Lushen's grip on his sword hilt tightened until the leather creaked. Bolin frowned deeply, his eyes fixed on the side of Solomon's face.
Solomon didn't shout back. He simply gave a slight nod to the guards standing behind him.
A mont later, two soldiers "escorted" Lord Roger's wife forward.
Lady Vylarr wore a dark, heavy gown. Though her face was as pale as parchnt and her fra trembled slightly in the biting wind, she kept her spine rigidly straight. She was brought into the light of the torches. She looked up at the high, dark walls, her eyes swimming with a complex storm of emotions.
Solomon's voice turned as cold as winter ice. "Roger!!"
"Look who is standing here!!"
The wall fell dead silent again.
"Your wife, Lady Vylarr! Your own brother, Ser Gyles! And his three lovely children! They are all in my hands!"
Solomon raised his voice, letting it echo against the stone.
"The war is over! You have lost! Let us end this with dignity! You cannot hold out in there forever!"
There was a mont of suffocating silence from the battlents, followed suddenly by a burst of skin-crawling, maniacal laughter.
"Hahahaha... HAHAHAHA!"
As the laughter died down, Roger's voice echoed down again, every word dripping with a chilling, absolute depravity.
"Do you think I care?! She is just a woman!"
"If you want to fuck her, go ahead! Let every filthy, lowborn peasant in your army line up and take a turn! I will sit up here and listen! I'll listen to her scream!"
"I!!! Roger Lege! Will never surrender my family's ancestral seat for the sake of a woman! I will never yield!"
The sheer vile madness of the words froze the air around them.
Even Solomon's hardened veterans, n who had waded through the blood of wildlings, looked up at the wall in pure, unadulterated shock.
Lady Vylarr's body violently jolted. The last faint trace of color vanished from her face.
But she didn't cry. She didn't collapse. She didn't let out a single sob. She simply closed her eyes slowly, as if shutting out the entire world.
When she opened them again, the terror was gone. What remained was a dead, bottomless sorrow mixed with a heavy, bitter mockery, hardening into a core of absolute resolve. Her lips pressed into a tight, tragic smile.
Solomon looked at the wall, then at the ashen face of Lady Vylarr. He cursed under his breath. "Motherfucker."
He fell silent. He waved a hand, signaling the guards to take Lady Vylarr back to her quarters.
He glanced into the shadows at Bolin, gesturing for the blacksmith to lower his bow. Roger hadn't even poked his head over the stone to look at his wife.
Solomon turned his back on the inner keep and walked away without another word. The negotiation had failed before it began. There was no point in wasting any more breath.
The next morning, bright sunlight stread through the tall, arched windows of the Great Hall, driving away the shadows of the night.
A steaming breakfast was laid out on the long oak table: freshly baked bread, seared cuts of at, and a flagon of warm ale.
Solomon sat at the head of the table, thodically cutting his at with a small silver knife, ntally noting that he should probably take Willowbrook's cook back to the Lion's Den.
Lady Vylarr was escorted into the hall. She had bathed and changed into a clean, lavish gown, her hair arranged with ticulous care. She did not look like a prisoner being brought before her conqueror; she looked like an honored guest attending a high feast.
She walked to the table but did not sit. She simply stared at Solomon with a piercing, fearless gaze.
Solomon looked up and gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit, My Lady."
"Try your own ale. It is quite good."
Lady Vylarr pulled out the chair and sat down with perfect aristocratic grace, though she did not touch the food.
Solomon stood, poured her a goblet of ale, and slid it across the table toward her. He spoke slowly.
"My Lady, your husband has lost his mind."
He stated it plainly, as a matter of simple fact.
"But I have no desire to see your son, Jero, throw his life away for nothing."
"I would like you to write a letter. I will have my riders deliver it to him, urging him to surrender."
Lady Vylarr finally spoke. Her voice was clear, crisp, and bone-chillingly cold. "Urge him to surrender?"
She picked up the goblet, gently swirling the amber liquid inside. Her gaze shifted from the wine to Solomon's face, looking at him as if he were a terribly naive child.
"Why should I urge him to surrender?"
"Lord Solomon."
"You started a war, yet you hold the naive hope that it will simply stop the mont you wish it to."
She took a small, elegant sip of the ale.
"Once a war begins, it takes on a life of its own."
"It does not listen to the commands of n, be they victors or the defeated. Its only true conclusion is reached when one side has bled entirely dry."
She set the heavy goblet down on the wood with a sharp clack.
"Those are the rules of our ga. It seems you have not yet learned them."
Solomon frowned slightly, but his voice remained perfectly calm. "Your son, Jero, currently occupies my family's seat, the Reekfort, with fewer than a hundred n."
"Every raven your husband sent last night has been shot down by my archers. Jero does not know Willowbrook has fallen. When my army arrives there, he will be surrounded."
"And you may not have seen the Reekfort. It is a miserable, squat tower. It cannot be defended against a true siege."
He leaned forward, trying to break through the woman's pride with the cold logic of survival.
"The fort has no strategic defenses. If he stays, he will die. Telling him to stand down and live is the best choice for you, and for the continuation of House Lege's bloodline. Is it not?"
Lady Vylarr listened, then let out a sharp, undisguised laugh of pure mockery. "The best choice?"
She threw the question back at him as if he had just spoken the most absurd words in the world.
"My son, Jero Lege, dying on the battlefield for his father's castle and the honor of his House. What exactly is wrong with that?"
Her gaze sharpened into twin daggers, stabbing directly into Solomon's eyes.
"Is that not the most glorious end a noble heir could ask for?"
Solomon rested his chin on his hand, falling into a deep, contemplative silence.
Lady Vylarr stood up slowly, her heavy skirts brushing the floor without a sound. She looked down at Solomon and repeated her words, her voice laced with the terrifying, cold pride of the ancient nobility.
"A son, dying in battle for his father and his House."
"What is wrong with that?"
Solomon finally moved. He picked up his own goblet and stood, facing Lady Vylarr. He drained the warm ale in a single, long gulp.
He lowered the cup, a dark, jagged smile spreading across his face.
"Very well, My Lady."
"Let the blood flow."
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